Thicker Than Blood
by J Daisy
Summary: Wilson loves Cameron, Cameron loves Wilson, and they're perfectly happy with their little girl. This is the golden age of their lives. Obviously, it's all about to come crashing down. [Sequel to 'Rest In Peace'] [Complete]
1. Prologue: Cameron

_Disclaimer…I own nothing except the characters I create. The quote in the summary is a Swedish proverb._

_Author's Note...I think my favorite out of all my personal Muses is the one who brought you 'Rest In Peace.' I didn't want to overwork her, so I laid her down to rest with Bryan and his wedding ring. (Note: Not a real person. Unfortunately. Remember the wedding ring metaphor from the last line or so of 'Rest In Peace'?) But alas; it seems I have not learned my lesson from that story, lesson being, some things never die. Lucky for me, Muse is one of those things. So, I bring you 'Thicker Than Blood.' Enjoy--and if anybody would like to offer their services as beta, that would be much appreciated!_

_Dedicated to all mothers, who put up with their daughters and love them anyway_

**  
**"**It takes twenty years or more of peace to make a man;  
it takes only twenty seconds of war to destroy him. **

-**Baudouin I 1930-1993, King of the Belgians**

**_Cameron's Point of View_**

_All I can see is white, everywhere there is white. My dress--no, my gown--is white, the seats are white, the women (who, by the way, are each flaunting white bouquets) who are following me everywhere I go are in white. Everything is pure and clean and fresh and new. Even Johanna's white knee-length dress is without a stain, and this is how I know I am dreaming._

_I look around, my pupils dilating in search of color. Finally, I spot him; James Evan Wilson, standing in front of me yet still very far away, doing a remarkable impression of a penguin._

_I walk closer to him, the women behind me hot on my glorious three-inch heels (which I miraculously do not trip over) and see that contrary to my earlier idea, Jimmy is not pretending to be the prey of the seal._

_Rather, he is merely dressed like one._

_I know dreams are usually surreal, but this is ridiculous._

_I gracefully swivel around and demand the woman right behind me to tell me where the hell I am._

_She grins stupidly. "Why, we're at your wedding, silly!"_

**XXXxxxXXX**

I wake with a start, my hairline damp with sweat. Jimmy is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking worriedly at me and Johanna is at the doorway, fully dressed. I glance at the clock; it is 10:30 in the morning. For a minute I am concerned that I am still dreaming, because those two are my human alarm clocks, but I can _feel _the familiar anxiousness creep upon me like a cat. I must be awake; there is no way the great pie in the sky that Jimmy _insists _is there would be so cruel as to burden me with emotions in my slumber.

Agonizingly, I turn to Jimmy and point an accusing finger at him. "I'm not going to marry you," I shout rather manically.

Jimmy and Johanna exchange glances and even though they're probably contemplating which mental institution they should call, I am absolutely tickled by the fact that they are so comfortable together. For years, Jimmy had been rather awkward around her, but a few months ago, a necessary if terrifying catalyst shoved him in the right direction. I am so happy with their bond that I do not mind that, in their newfound closeness, they are unwittingly but somehow systematically shutting me out. Jealousy, as House once told me after seeing the way I eyed one of Jimmy's female patients, is an awful color. Apparently, it clashes horribly with guilt and good intentions.

I remember telling House that if he wanted to be someone's style expert, he was barking up the wrong tree and glanced meaningfully at Chase. I'm not exactly sure what has happened to our _relationship _over the years, and whether we are friends now or what, but it is as though we have developed a common link through association. We have a deal; he never lets Jimmy on that motorcycle of his, and never tells Jimmy why; and I never hold Jimmy back from hanging out with House, doing 'manly things'.

However, if he decides not to go to some monster truck rally or horserace or bar on his own accord, well, then it's out of my hands.

Smirking at myself and my womanly influences, I climb out of bed and give each a kiss on the cheek, the anger from my dream fading away. On my way to the bathroom, I study Johanna's attire. She is wearing denim kapris, a black t-shirt, and a faded bubble-gum pink sweatshirt. It is not her clothing that alarms me; it is the fact that she _is _clothed. Not that my eight-and-a-half year old daughter runs around in the nude; it just takes several minutes of nagging to get her dressed, and in weather-appropriate clothes.

"It's not Mother's Day," I think aloud. "Not my birthday. Last time I checked we weren't living in an alternate universe," I bend over so my face is inches from Johanna's. "So what's the big occasion?"

Despite what my words imply, Johanna is anything but a problem. My only wish for her is a rather selfish one, and it pains me to admit it, even to myself, but if I could change a single thing about her, I would be embarrassingly happy if she needed me more. I suppose that her fierce independence is due to the first six years of her life and the uncertainty of it all, and I know I'm the cause of that but it doesn't make me want to be needed any less. Sometimes I wonder what is going to happen when she learns to drive…will she just up and leave, tired of my over-caring ways? Will she eventually come to see me as nothing more than a person who offers shelter and financial support? What about when she goes to college…by the time she graduates, she won't need me at all.

I know what happened when I went to college.

I snap out of my troubling reverie, and ask Johanna to repeat what she has just said. She smiles uncertainly, and starts over again. "You said you would take me to the zoo to draw the giraffes today, remember? You promised me last weekend."

I do remember that, but what I remember more clearly is the look in our patient's, young Katie Willow, eyes. They were empty, dull, vacant.

One of the first signs sailors have of their ships sinking is the rats. Somehow, rodents have an instinct to flee the drowning boat, even if it means taking a suicide plunge off the hull. I suppose souls are the same way; when the body enters the homestretch of death, the final few minutes and seconds, they are the first to leave. Nerve endings can still live for a few hours and it took the Titanic an entire two hours and forty long minutes to sink.

Even as a doctor, I know that at some point or another, medical charts and oceanic maps do not matter anymore. When the rats jump; when the soul flies away; that's when you know you're in the crap. Even if the band plays on.

"Sorry, Johanna," I apologize, "but I really have to be at work." Technically, I'm off, but I want to see how our patient is doing. Or, rather, I _need _to see how she is doing.

Annoyance then understanding seeps across Johanna's face. "Ok," she says resignedly and leaves the room.

My heart wracked with guilt, I move to follow her but something grabs my arm and stops me.

It's Jimmy.

"I'll take her," he graciously offers.

"Don't you have work?"

He shrugs. "We can make it quick."

No he can't. Johanna's young flesh and blood is clearly that of an artist's, and when she gets into a project, really, truly, into it, she's on island time. Art is Johanna's escape, and once she puts a pencil in her hand, it doesn't come out for hours. A good job, she told me once, is not something you can rush.

Ain't it the truth.

"You'll have to take the whole day off," I tell him.

Jimmy shrugs. "I don't have an appointment 'till late this afternoon. If I can't make it, I'll ask Dr. Lagber to."

I shake my head. Sometimes he just doesn't get it. "No, you _have _to take it," I insist. "This person has cancer. They shouldn't get stood up by their own oncologist."

He grins and follows me into the bathroom as I begin to brush my teeth. "It must be exhausting to live with that moral compass of yours," he marvels.

"You have it too," I say after I spit and rinse. "You're just very good at ignoring it."

"You know me too well."

I wipe the excess water from my mouth with a coarse washcloth and smile at him. "I do. And I have no complaints."

With that, I turn around and march into Johanna's room, leaving a happy Jimmy in my wake.

**XXXxxxXXX**

I look around Johanna's room five times for her. It is completely uncharacteristic for her to just…_disappear._ And besides, I didn't hear the front door slam.

"Johanna," I call out, stupidly looking under a small pillow for her. "Where are you?" For a beautiful, fleeting moment, I am taken back a few years and she's still six and I'm still single and it's just the two of us, indulging in that wonderful childhood game where, no matter what, you always find what--or who--you're looking for.

"In the living room," she calls back.

I sigh and follow her voice to find my daughter sitting in front of the computer, quickly typing what looks like a letter. I notice with some pride that she has to backspace less and less; her typing has gotten better.

I read over her shoulder. "What've you got there?"

"Nothing important."

"Can I read it?"

Johanna shrugs and gives up her chair. I study the screen, she has written in an impossibly small font.

"Do you wish the reader of this to go blind?"

Johanna blushes slightly and shrugs.

I smile at her and significantly enlarge the font, making myself feel much older than I am.

_Dear Mr. Walmount,_

_I'm very sorry to say I was unable to finish the final project you assigned to us by the due date. I will hand it in to you next Monday, unless I start a new one. I hope this does not cause any trouble._

_From,_

_Johanna C. Wilson-Cameron_

If I felt guilty before, I feel positively awful now. Sighing, I turn to Johanna. "What's the assignment?"

"For our last project, we had to draw a series of something. I did animals. I already drew a dog, a cat, a bird, a lizard, and one of the elephants at the zoo," Johanna explains.

How old is she again? I could have sworn that she was born yesterday.

Then again, I really couldn't.

"Could you draw Steve McQueen? I'm sure House isn't at work yet, I can ask Jimmy to call him and ask to bring him in."

Johanna brightens. "That'd be great!" Her smile fades suddenly; remembering who House is, no doubt. "But will he mind?"

I shrug. "Probably. But don't worry…he'll have much more fun hanging it over me than you."

This logic means nothing to Johanna. Like me, she is one to take the beat for her own problems and needs.

"I'll call him," she decides and leaves to do the deed.

I smile at her retreating form and triumphantly, if prematurely, delete her letter. I'm her parent; I determine how old she must be to pay for her mother's assorted complexes.

**XXXxxxXXX**

It does not surprise me one little bit that House brings in the aging rat. Johanna may be oblivious to the fact that she has had most of the hospital staff wrapped around her pinky finger since she got here, but I am not. Nevertheless, I privately thank House for the favor once Johanna is happily sketching and lost in her own world.

His gaze lingers on Steve McQueen a second longer than it should, and I feel compelled to ask what's wrong.

He looks at me like I have grown an extra head. "It's a _rat._"

"He's your pet."

"It's a _rat_," he insists. "Not everybody forms a bizarre attachment to anything and everything they meet, foreign as it may seem."

"Is he sick?"

He closes his eyes for a second and looks like he seriously considers yelling at me. "_It's a rat_," he finally says, apparently at a loss.

I examine Steve McQueen from a distance. "He looks thin," I tell House.

"It's on a new diet. South Beach was for wussies."

I wrack my brain for everything I know about the South Beach Diet. I vaguely remember reading that the lack of nutrition may be carcinogenic. "Your rat has cancer?"

He looks at me approvingly. "Very good. You've been Googling diet plans, then. Interesting. Is Wilson expecting a better body out of his woman? Is living in sin finally taking its toll on your hips? A little junk in the trunk never hurt anybody, Dr. Cameron. Especially potential anorexics."

I roll my eyes so hard my head swerves a bit. "Just because I choose salads over fast food _does not _mean I'm anorexic," I snap.

"Just because I pop Vicoden like candy and drink Scotch like it's fresh from the Fountain of Youth doesn't make me an addict."

I open and close my mouth furiously, but find I am totally speechless.

Foreman walks in, nods at me and Johanna in greeting, and looks grimly at Katie Willow's latest charts. Sighing audibly, he makes some coffee for himself and examines the whiteboard. "Cameron, I just saw Wilson. He wanted to know if you wanted one of those snacks he keeps because you skipped breakfast this morning."

Johanna looks up. "But I thought…" House's sarcasm finally dawns on her and she smiles slightly, appreciating the humor, before getting back to work.

I look at House, almost infuriated with him. He grins down at me. "Oh, the tangled webs we weave, when we practice to deceive." He looks over at Johanna. "You can keep him if you know who said that," he says, clearly expecting the wrong answer.

"Sir Walter Scott," she answers without batting an eye. When House's mouth drops, Johanna grins cheekily at him. "I just read an Illustrated Classics version of _Ivanhoe. _I researched the author."

_My daughter. _

I turn to House, barely able to conceal the proud grin threatening to splash across my face. "That rat better not be dying," I warn before practically jolting from the room, so desperate am I to find a place where I can safely collapse into laughter.

**XXXxxxXXX**

The rest of the day passes by uneventfully. Johanna is ecstatic about her new pet, who she promises to take excellent care of, and never to feed it Vicoden. Jimmy and I are, needless to say, less than thrilled about the new addition. Meanwhile, poor Katie Willow seems to be stuck in limbo. She is a hair's length away from a vegetative state and Chase now has his very own assisted suicide tale to tell. He informed the family that such a thing was illegal, but assisted them in filling out the correct DNR forms.

Maybe I shouldn't have come to work today.

When House tells me that I'm going to need to stay late tonight, and Wilson tells me that it turns out he'll be working the night also, I arrange for a sleepover for Johanna and check my messages. The sleepover is easy; all I have to do is ask Johanna to call so-and-so and I don't have to lift another finger, but as for checking my messages; it's an adventure in itself. I have just recently learned how to maneuver the new answering machine, and I'm still working out the kinks.

The first message is from Johanna's friend; she needs the homework.

The second is from Jimmy's _other_ brother, Mike; he wants to know what he and Jimmy are getting their parents for their anniversary. I wrinkle my nose at this one; they are both over thirty-five, and still they chip in for the same gift.

The third is from his parents themselves; they want to know if they are coming down here for their anniversary (please no) or if we are coming up there. I have met them all of two times, each time they have been aloof and distanced themselves from Johanna and me. To be fair, we weren't exactly very warm to them either.

The fourth is from Ms. Harding, from the adoption agency, asking for us to call her immediately.

It's an emergency.


	2. Wilson

_Disclaimer…I own nothing except for the characters I create. The quote in the summary is a Swedish proverb. The style in which this is written was greatly inspired by Jodi Picoult's brilliant works. _

_Author's Note…Still looking for a beta, if anyone's up to it. Also, if anybody would please assist me--or at least help me figure out how to do it--in uploading this story on LiveJournal, that'd be great. Oh, last thing: the first part is Wilson's flashback and I switch between him calling Cameron 'Cameron' and 'Allie' on purpose. All will eventually make sense, I promise!_

**"…For I also had my hour;**

**One far fierce hour and sweet;**

**There was a shout about my ears,**

**And palms before my feet."**

**-GK Chesterton, "The Donkey"**

_The woman's eyes are as dark and still as Cameron's are light and changing and her hair is as fine and blonde as Cameron's is thick and red and her bodacious body is as curvy as Cameron's is slim. She is perhaps the most beautiful person I have ever laid my surely-vacant eyes on, and suddenly I am rendered incapable of doing anything but compare her to a woman that is not mine._

_Luckily, the woman that is now standing opposite me seems to have no such affliction, and chats amiably to me about the Mets, and what a crappy job that Zambrano is doing._

_Her midnight eyes are shining at me, her pupils like identical black moons. 'So are you in?'_

_At least, I _thought _we were talking about baseball. _

_I blink at her apologetically. This woman, Mary I think her name is, is as mercifully thick as she is gorgeous. _

_ 'The baseball game? Saturday night? Are you in?'_

_Saturday night; Saturday night; Saturday night. I rack my brain for any excuse that will prohibit me from attending that game, but all I can think about is that the Mets are playing the Yankees at Shea, third in the series, and they're looking for a sweep._

_'Zambrano's not pitching,' she offers when she sees the evidently unreadable look on my face._

_'Yes, but-'_

_'If you can't make it, I have season tickets.' A perfect grin stretches across her face. 'My dad gave them to me.'_

_My G/d, she's the perfect woman. Who am I to say no to her? A mere man, refusing this remarkable specimen surely sent from Olympus itself! _

_I really don't deserve her, I think miserably. Hell, I consider her a specimen._

_Perhaps this shallow thought is what sends the approval from my lips to her ears._

_She smiles wider; showing off brilliantly white teeth. 'It's a date, then.'_

_I nod a confirmation, defeated confirmation. 'It's a date.'_

**XXXxxxXXX**

When we first started living together, Allie and I would have fun waiting up for each other if one of us had to work late. I do not know what Allie did to stay awake after Johanna went to bed, but she would always be in a good mood when I got home. That smile; it was certainly a nice welcoming, considering that when I had to work late it usually meant a patient of mine had died, nearly died, or was dying.

But Allie has this habit of not letting go of anything--_anything_--until she absolutely has to. I am sure there is a story or three to explain this habit, made more intricate by the fact that most people that she has really loved have left her. Johanna eventually came back, but...well, Johanna was the only boomerang of the group.

Nevertheless, I know it to be true that Allie won't come home late unless a patient has died or been cured. Usually they're cured. People normally don't associate the terms 'lucky' and 'employed by House', but the fact is; that job is better for Allie than she knows. House is as obsessive about saving people as Allie is; he is just dramatically obvious.

But I digress. As our relationship matured, it became harder for both of us to stay awake. We would try; Allie often came home to find the lights blaring, the TV screaming, and the radio piercing. I, however, would be fast asleep on our bed, entangled in the sheets. At first she thought it was cute, but after a while the neighbors began to complain about the noise level and threatened to have the three of us evicted.

Johanna, ironically, had no complaints.

The point is that no matter what, we always found a way to make each other feel welcome, especially after a long night. I suppose some would classify it as an unwritten rule, others as a sweet precedent, and others still as a measly, "couple-y," tradition.

But apparently, rules are meant to be broken, precedents were intended to eventually be ignored, and traditions die with time. I learn this lesson when I get home from work at two in the glorious morning, and Allie is on a warpath, speaking frantically into the phone.

"But you _can't_ do that," I hear her insist to the person on the opposite end. "_They _can't do that!"

Allie paces the length of our relatively-small apartment and listens intently to the white noise coming from the portable, furrowing her brow.

"No, no, no. That's…_why didn't I know about any of this!_"

I raise my eyebrows at her, and she ignores me. Or perhaps she did not even hear me enter.

Ignoring her in return, I rub my eyes and walk towards the kitchen. I am halfway there when I pass Johanna's room. Her light is on.

I rap softly on the door and do not wait for her to respond. I do not know why, but a deep fear, a primal sense of foreboding, settles into the pit of my stomach.

All animals on this Earth, including humans, have a "fight or flight" response. Acetylcholine triggers the release of epinephrine and norepinephrine from your medulla of your adrenal glands. Then, catecholamine gives you all those wonderful physical reactions, the ones you notice; increased heart rate, blood vessels constricting, and dilated pupils are just a few of the symptoms.

When the fight or flight response is set off, you become incredibly aware of your surroundings. Everything around you, every aspect of your environment, be it a foreign country or your very own bedroom, is suddenly your worst enemy, a threat to your survival.

You get the choice, you know. Whether to fight or flight. Whether to combat or escape.

The minute I see Johanna, her eyes a fierce shade of brown, I know that she has assumed battle position.

As for me; well, I have decided I flight too much. Tonight, I fight.

**XXXxxxXXX**

Instead of barreling headfirst into the brawl, I stare Johanna down, giving her an early chance for surrender. She does not, and somehow, I know she is ready. She doesn't need guns; but she was born with ammunition.

I take a seat on her bed, purposely invading her territory. "What's going on," I ask in a rather hushed tone.

She stands up across from me and crosses her arms. I understand her completely; hospitality is a luxury reserved for times of peace. However small, this is war. "Nothing," she answers tersely, testing the enemy.

Reminding myself that in this setting, I am the foe, I do not break my gaze. "Who's your mom on the phone with," I ask, gesturing towards the closed door. We can still hear Allie's one-sided conversation.

Johanna shrugs. "Ms. Harding."

I blink confusingly and instantly put myself at a disadvantage. Johanna has the higher ground for the time being.

"My adoption agent," she clarifies after a brief silence.

In my mind, I drop my gun to the ground; bullets incorrectly loaded spilling all over. Ms. Harding does not have a name in our life; she was always regarded simply as 'the adoption agent.' She periodically checks on Johanna, each time finding nothing wrong with the manner in which she is raised. But she has never called first, always just showed up, and always at times when I am not home.

What could she possibly say to Allie that would precipitate such a disturbing reaction?

The question reverberates in my brain, leaving room for nothing else. I involuntarily start to compile a mental list, but I cannot think of a single thing.

"I need to go to Seattle," Johanna says suddenly.

I look up startled, still trying to sort out my thoughts. So Johanna is trying to run away? Maybe she has already tried, and that is why Ms. Harding is calling.

But why would Ms. Harding know about this? And why didn't _I _know about this--or Allie, apparently?

"Seattle," I repeat.

"Well, not Seattle exactly. This little town outside of Seattle--Augusta's Bridge, it's called," Johanna recites, feeding information to the defenseless enemy. "I need to go there."

I wonder what good ole Ulysses S. Grant would do if Stonewall Jackson wordlessly surrendered a winning battle and started naming towns that are thousands of miles away out of thin air.

Somehow, I doubt that either general would put their head in their hands and rub their temples, overwhelmed with this sudden turn of events.

I look at Johanna with weary eyes. "Why do you have to go to Augusta's Bridge?"

Clearly, there is a story here that Johanna does not want to tell. She glances at the clock, her hands, the hamper in the corner and finally focuses her eyes on the wall behind me.

"There are 92 stripes on that wall." Johanna looks at me, confused. Instead of telling her that I have counted every single striation in this room, I continue to point at the other three former fortifications. "12 on that one, 12 on that one, and 92 on that one."

Johanna recovers quickly. "There are 93 on that one," she tells me, pointing directly behind me. "See that little bit of extra wallpaper that's kind of falling off the corner? There's a stripe on that one." She smiles wanly. "It's faded, but it's there."

It's really no fair that I went into this battle, innocent of weapons and bombs and military stratagems while Johanna, the picture of innocence, is well-versed in the art of war. Looks can be very deceiving, apparently.

I turn my attention back to Johanna, not realizing that I was counting the stripes in my head. "Why do you need to go to Augusta's Bridge," I repeat, my voice leaving room for nothing but the straight answer.

Johanna suddenly looks very tired. "It's just something I need to do." She gives me a sad look. "I'll tell you when we get there."

Pure misery is draped across Johanna's face like a thin, rice paper veil, but that does not stop me from egging her on. "Why can't you tell me here?"

Johanna gives me the patented puppy dog eyes look. When she sees it do nothing to me, at least on the exterior, she takes a deep breath. "I just…I can't."

I sigh, slowly giving into defeat. "Is it a life-or-death matter," I ask jocularly, trying to restore the sweet and carefree aura Johanna usually brings into a room.

But Johanna looks at me seriously, and replies with a clear and concise 'yes.'


	3. Johanna

_Disclaimer…I own nothing except the characters I create. The quote in the summary is a Swedish proverb._

_Author's Note…I hit a bit of a writer's block with this chapter, partly because it was pretty momentous for what it's worth, and partly because it's Johanna who is telling it. I love writing Johanna's part; it's like an extreme mental exercise. Children are very observant, I believe, much more so than we realize, so I have her picking up on the little things. But as I am no longer a child, just a moody teen, I have to be on my toes to kind of get into her state of mind. This makes for some very boring days. Hopefully this installment won't be. By the way; I have Johanna use some 'big words' in her mind for the simple purpose of avoiding repititon._

"**No river can return to its source, yet all rivers must have beginnings."**

**-Native American Proverb**

_The first time I saved a person's life, I was five years old._

_Shawn and Hilary were so proud of me. Hilary told me that I deserved a Superman cape, because of what I was doing. Each time I had to have another test taken on me, or another doctor had to fiddle around with my blood or my heart or my lungs, she added another charm to my charm bracelet. There's a silver heart from when I got something called an EKG, which sounds scary but it's really not that bad; a stethoscope just like the one my mom wears in the Clinic from when I got a chest X-ray; an "A+" from when I had to get a blood test; and a slice of pizza the size of my thumbnail because the night before; I couldn't eat anything._

_We were having all our meals at the hospital then, and Megan was stuck with a tube down her throat that fed her, so I stayed upstairs with her that night while Shawn and Hilary had dinner in the hospital cafeteria. Shawn thought I should be with them, considering tomorrow was such a big day and all, but Hilary decided I should hang out with Megan. "Talk about your feelings," she advised us._

_Hilary was always telling us to do stuff like that._

_As soon as she left, Megan announced that she didn't want to talk about her feelings._

_I grinned at her and, because I wanted to do everything exactly the way she did, I agreed. _

_I remember Megan looking very satisfied then. "Good," she said, and pulled out a deck of cards. We played 'Battle' for half an hour with each other, silently. Megan kept trying to teach me to play 'Spit,' but I was too busy examining her to pay attention._

_Megan wasn't completely bald, but I can't say she had hair either. It was more like little blonde patches here and there. Usually, it was completely hidden with an army bandanna, but Megan had it off today._

_When I first moved in with the Rightman's, Megan had long blonde hair, all the down to her waist, with the ends dyed purple. It looked like she had put it in a ponytail and dipped the tip of it in violet ink. Hilary hated it, and let everybody know it, but I thought it was the coolest thing in the world._

_Six months later, after her treatment had began; Megan woke up with all that beautiful hair on her pillow, no longer attached to her head._

_She screamed and ran from the room, looking for Hilary. It woke me up, and I went from my side of our room to hers, put the hair in the plastic bag I kept under my mattress, and waited. _

_I waited for two and a half hours before Megan finally came back in. She took one look at the bag, one look at the mirror and her bald head, and gave me simple instructions: "Bury it." And I did just as she asked except for one small purple lock that is hidden in the locket charm of my bracelet. This is how I know I will never forget Megan; a small part of her will always be with me._

_Anyway, after a while we got bored of 'Battle' and decided to paint each other's nails. I did Megan's first and, since I was only five, I smudged the black polish all over Megan's fingers, so I had to go especially slow. To keep me from getting bored, Megan talked to me:_

"_Does my hair look bad today, really bad, or just plain awful?"_

"_It looks good."_

"_Do you think that the boy in the next room likes me?"_

"_Maybe."_

"_I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty."_

"_I think you're pretty."_

"_Do you think Mom would let me go on a date with him?"_

_I tried to wipe the nail polish from Megan's pinky finger and hoped she wouldn't notice the black paint bleeding onto her skin. Really, she didn't need the extra layer; her fingernails were already dark around the edges. "Hilary would never let you do that while you're sick."_

"_Really? I think Mom would."_

"_I'm telling you, Hilary wouldn't even let you do that in your _dreams_." Or nightmares._

_Megan tilted her head to the side. "When are you going to start calling her 'Mom?'"_

"_She's _your _mom," I told her. "She's _my _Hilary."_

"_But if she's not your Mom," Megan said carefully, "then you're not my sister."_

_My head snapped up so quickly that my hand twitched and knocked over the nail polish, spilling it into one of the little valleys of the bed. That bed was just like the map in the back of Megan's textbook: bumpy where there were hills; deep in between the mountains. "If what I'm going to do tomorrow doesn't make us sisters, then what does?"_

_Megan's eyes got all big then, and didn't say anything for a while. Instead, she started painting my nails right out of the small, black puddle. Unlike me, she did a perfect job and didn't smudge one bit._

_When she was done, she looked at me. "This…thing you're going to do tomorrow?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Are you sure you want to do it? Because you don't have to, you know."_

_It was an easy question. This was Megan; how could I _not _want to do it?_

_Megan looked at me expectantly. _

"_I wouldn't do it for anybody," I told her, trying to sound as grown-up as possible, "besides my sister."_

**XXXxxxXXX**

James stares at me for a moment, and puts his head in his hands again. "Life or death," he asks again, just to make sure. "You can't be serious."

But from the look on his face, he can tell that I'm about as serious as they come. I want to feel bad for James, I really do because he has no idea what's going on, but it is just _so hard_. There are bigger things going on right now and it's not his fault that he doesn't know what they are but…it doesn't stop me from wishing that he would do something--_anything_--besides counting off our weird little family unit as 'flying towards the fan.'

"Johanna," he says slowly. "You have to tell me what's really going on."

"But--"

"No buts." He takes a breath, long and deep. "Just the truth."

**XXXxxxXXX**

A couple months ago, our teacher taught us the absolute coolest thing about history. She told us that our textbooks only tell us a half of the story, the winner's half. There's a whole other part to it that we'll never learn…the loser's side. "All we know," she told us that day, "is what the champions want us to."

I remember this one girl who, until that day, I had never really liked, raised her hand. "What if the war's still going on," she asked Mrs. Curtis. "Whose story do we hear then?"

I thought that Sarah Norden was the smartest girl in the world.

Mrs. Curtis had looked confused at first, like she didn't know how to answer. Then she looked satisfied. "That, Sarah, remains to be seen."

Andrew K. raised his hand. "But what if someone asks? Which side do they hear?"

Mrs. Curtis had seemed thrilled. "Well, Andrew, that depends."

"On what?"

She smiled like the Cheshire cat from _Alice In Wonderland_. "Whoever you ask."

**XXXxxxXXX**

James looks at me, and I can see that he wasn't going to leave until he had an answer.

So I try to explain what happened three years ago. I tell him about Shawn and Hilary and I even tell him about Megan. I tell him how they weren't just good, they were the best. I tell him about Megan's purple hair. I tell him about Shawn's apple pie. I tell him about the room Megan and I shared, about the rug that stretched from one side to the other like a bridge. And I tell him how happy we were and how I was so sure that this was going to last and I tell him what happened when we realized Megan was sick and I tell him how much Shawn cried, but how Hilary wasn't even able to and I tell him how scared I was, how very scared I was, and I tell him tell him tell him but it is just not good enough.

I am nearly at the part when the doctor figured out how to save Megan when I notice I am crying. It's not the movie kind of crying where it just leaves your cheeks looking shiny, it's the kind that you use your whole body for.

I open my mouth to finish my story, but like I said; my entire body is crying, including my mouth. I cannot finish, even though I want to _so bad_.

I guess this is what happens when you try to talk about a war that's not over yet.

"You donated bone marrow," James says. It's only four words, six syllables, but it takes him a while to get them out. Like if he keeps them in, they aren't true.

I try and say yes but I choke on the word. I can only nod.

"And she needs more?"

I do not even attempt to talk again; just nod.

"And your mom is never going to let you go," James mumbles quietly to himself.

James doesn't seem to know how exactly to respond, even though it's just to himself. I guess it's like writing an essay about something you have not studied; you just do not know where to begin.

But even if James doesn't know where to begin, he certainly has an idea of where to go. He trudges over to the closet heavily, like there is a giant weight on his chest, digs through the wrinkled clothes that hide the floor and eventually pulls out the purple plastic _Speedo _knapsack I got at swimming party last year. Like he is doing a routine he has practiced so much he doesn't even have to think about it to do it right, he folds some clothes and fits them perfectly in the bag.

When he is done with this, he goes into the hallway and turns on the computer. It wakes up slowly, the screen taking its sweet time to light up. When it is _finally _working, and is on the lookout for any action to respond to, James logs on to our slow internet and then he shifts, so I cannot see whatever the monitor is showing him.

Finally, he turns back to me. "Johanna," he says warily. "Go back to your room and set your alarm for 5:15. We'll have plenty of time to sleep later."

"What's going on," I ask, just to make sure.

"There's a 6:50 flight out to Washington this morning. We're on it."

Even though James tells me to try and get some rest, I watch him through the crack between my door and the wall. He doesn't go through the process of turning off the computer, just presses the button and watches the screen go black. Then he goes over to the couch and looks at my mom, who is quietly snoring, using the phone as a pillow. Very gently, James pulls out the cover from underneath her and rests it on top of her, like a blanket of protection.

And that's when I realize; she's not coming with us.


	4. Cameron and Hilary

_Disclaimer…I don't own anything. The style this is written in was made awesome by Jodi Picoult and probably many other brilliant authors before her. I do not profit from anything._

_Author's Note…I'm a little worried that a few lines in this chapter were clichéd…could anybody care to enlighten me as to if they were or not? Thanks! No, I'm not tricking anybody into leaving reviews, I'm just curious if anyone agrees…I swear! Nothing else to say here, except that I'm listening to "Be My Baby" as I'm doing the final edit and you can make fun of me all you want, but that song just happens to rock. Remember it? It's from the original "Dirty Dancing." _

"**The life so short, the craft so long to learn."**

**-Hippocrates**

_**Cameron**_

_Everywhere there is black; all I can see is black. My gown--no, my dress--is black, the seats are black, the people (who, by the way, are all carrying small pebbles in their hands) that are following me everywhere I go are in black. Everything is tainted and dirty and old and dead. The only thing that is white is Johanna's grim, sleeping body lying in a long box, but still, it is deprived of color and Johanna is nothing without her color. This is how I know I am having a nightmare._

_I look around, my pupils shrinking, overwhelmed by all the darkness. Finally; I spot him; James Evan Wilson, standing in front of me yet very far away, doing a remarkable impression of a zombie._

_I walk toward him, the people behind me trailing my dull flats (which miraculously do not fall off my feet) and see that, contrary to my earlier idea, James is not pretending to be a ravenous cannibal._

_Rather, he is just made-up like one, his face gray and drawn, his hair askew._

_I know nightmares are usually terrifying, but this is ludicrous. _

_I turn around slowly and demand the horrifyingly familiar man behind me to tell me where the hell I am._

_He puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Al, don't you remember? She left us; she's not ours anymore."_

**XXXxxxXXX**

I wake up suddenly, my breathing shallow. I remember crying last night, and I remember hearing somebody besides myself cry although I could not identify who it was exactly, but I do not remember the tears lasting into my slumber.

_Al. _Only one person has ever called me 'Al', and he has been dead for nine years.

Why the hell am I dreaming about Bryan? And why are we at Johanna's funeral?

Even though it is purely hypothetical, the two words put in the same thread of thought is enough to send shivers down my spine. Ironic; I have been wishing all these years to see Bryan just one more time, if only to hear him tell me that I did the right thing, and when he finally comes back to me, it is to deliver the message that our daughter has joined him.

The nightmare is disturbingly similar to the dream I had just last night. About marrying another man, I realize with a sick feeling in my stomach.

Last night. It seems like a year ago.

My breathing becoming less erratic, I shove the events of last night out of my mind and try to remember what I was doing a year ago. That was the time of the accident. I don't know what happened while I was 'out', so to speak, but I do know that once I was back 'in', everything had changed. It was only a few hours, Jimmy told me, but those hours were filled with events that could barely fit into a single lifetime.

The accident made me wonder what would have happened if it really had been fatal. I realize that once I was in more than a few doctor's care, my life wasn't in danger for a second but frankly; it does not matter to the family what the doctors say. Every minute is another perfect opportunity for something to go wrong; every second is another chance for somebody to die.

It doesn't have to be in the ER, you know. Life, death, and time exist in discord wherever you go, three elements there is literally no escape from. You can get hit by a car during your best day or your worst day. You can succumb to a latent heart disease any month of the year. Anybody who has lived through tragedy, who has had an emotional tornado rip at her heart, can tell you that nothing is random. The car was driving _somewhere_; the syndrome entered your body _somehow_, even if it started from the inside out.

I sit up and look around. The apartment is dead empty. Jimmy and Johanna must have gone…somewhere. It's Johanna's last Monday in school, so she must be there, and there is absolutely no reason why Jimmy wouldn't be at work.

As there is no reason he wouldn't have woken me up.

I glance at the clock; it's 9:33. Groaning slightly, I get off the coach, a thin blanket falling around my feet. I see that the computer has not been shut off properly, and I know that if I do not restart the embarrassingly fragile device, it will crash.

Surprisingly, there is a note taped to the screen. I smile as I recognize Jimmy's messy handwriting, and read as I work the computer:

_Dear Allie,_

_I'm so sorry._

Sorry about what?

But then the computer comes back to life and the screen slowly lights up.

I press my hand to my mouth and read the flight information. It takes my vision thirty-three seconds to become so blurred so that I cannot see anything through it, but that is enough time for me to realize that Johanna and Jimmy are long gone.

Coincidently, that's how long it takes for a heart to break.

I close my eyes--not that they're doing anything--and push the chair back. Like a zombie, I walk back to my room and start to get changed into more professional attire. As I fold the blanket that fell to the floor earlier, I call House, telling him that the reason I'm late is because everyone overslept and I had to take Johanna to school. I apologize and assure him it will never happen again and say it more confidently then I should.

He really doesn't care either way.

**XXXxxxXXX**

_**Hilary**_

_Everywhere there is color, all I can see is brilliant color. My outfit is a sassy shade of red, the seats are splashes of orange and yellow, the doctors (who, by the way, are all carrying brightly-hued first aid kits) that are following me everywhere I go are all wearing funky tie-dye lab coats. Everything is fun and cheery and vivacious and youthful. Even Megan is radiating color, her long blonde hair swishing around her waist, the ends still purple. This is how I know I am dreaming; Megan hasn't had hair for six months._

_I look around, my pupils shining, reflecting the sheer beauty of it all. Finally, I spot her; little Johanna Cathryn, standing in front of me yet very far away, doing a remarkable impression of a custom-built angel. _

_I walk towards her, the doctors hot on my chic shoes, (which miraculously do not twist my ankles) and see that, contrary to my earlier belief, Johanna is not the response to my oft-repeated prayer._

_Rather, she is merely dressed as one; a hospital gown billowing around her knees, and toting an IV bag like the one we gave her for Halloween. But instead of being filled with candy that my husband and I meticulously check for broken wrappers, it is carrying life-saving marrow, full of microscopic warriors._

_I know dreams are supposed to reveal your strongest desires, but this is fairly obvious._

_I turn around carefully, as so not to wake myself up, and ask Shawn (who has appeared out of nowhere) why we can't do this when we're awake._

_He puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Hil, don't you remember? She left us; she's not ours anymore." _

**XXXxxxXXX**

I awaken slowly, my subconscious still trying to hang on to my fantasy. A smile spreads across my face, even though my eyes remain firmly shut. Slumber is perhaps the only place where I can live free of worry, and I am in no rush to leave it. But then my ears wake up, and I can hear the steady, constant rhythm of machines attached to my daughter. This jerks me back to my dreaded reality, the reality that only exists in most people's nightmares.

My eyes search the stark white hospital room. It has become a temporary-permanent residence for Megan, if such a thing even exists. She lives here, but not forever. But there are only ways out of the Pam Sanders Cancer Wing of Mercy Hospital; remission and death. Of the two, we have already used one.

"Have a nice nap," I hear someone jocularly inquire. I do not need to see his tired face to know it is Shawn who has asked me.

I shift so that I am sitting upright, rather than have my back at a crammed angle and smile wearily at Shawn. "Yeah."

"Still look tired."

Of course I'm still tired; Shawn should know better than anyone that the natural result of being the parent of a cancer patient is perpetual exhaustion. But we have never admitted this truth to each other. Rather, we walk on like resigned soldiers, knowing whatever life throws at you is, well, life. So, instead of complaining to my husband about the dull pain in the small of my back or the headache that is pressing against my temples, I ask him in a hushed voice if Megan is sleeping, or just resting with her eyes closed.

"Just resting with my eyes closed," Megan answers for him. "And awake or not, I'm still right here."

I stand up and stretch before walking over to her bed. "Would you have preferred it if I left the room to ask?"

Her eyes still shut, Megan smirks weakly, and, out of habit, I kiss her forehead, searching for a fever. I still can't decide which will cause my stomach to sink further down; it being dangerously warm or dangerously cool.

I'm happier not knowing.

Megan winces suddenly and I glance at the clock; it is 3:20. The nurses were supposed to give her morphine at 3:15. "Did the nurses come yet," I ask Shawn sharply.

Megan shifts semi-painfully in her bed and opens her eyes. They're Shawn's eyes, a gentle shade of gray that used to be surrounded by light eyelashes. They fell out months ago, along with her hair. "They came a couple minutes ago, Mom," Megan says carefully, being gentle on her sore mouth. "It's just taking a little longer for it to kick in."

I remember the first time the drug was administered to Megan, I wasn't afraid, not for a single minute, she would become addicted. Although I will never admit this to anyone; it was because deep down, I believed she wouldn't live to get the chance. On the surface, I take everything in stride but if you ever take it all off, then you'll see I'm scared and I'm cowering and I'm crying and I'm second-guessing every step I take and I'm wondering if maybe just maybe it's time to let her go. I want to give my daughter the best life possible, and when something as big as this is preventing it, maybe the best life for her is no life at all.

And as soon as this thought crosses my mind, I immediately berate myself for being a terrible mother. What is wrong with me; wanting to let my child die? Do I have no heart? No soul?

After Megan had gone into remission, I didn't go back to work, even though the same position was waiting exclusively for me. Coworkers I used to be friends with when I had the time asked me how I could be so self-sacrificing as to give up the job I loved to take care of my daughters, one of whom was not even biological. The answer is simple, really; it was easier to think about the two of them than it was to think about me. My girls were wholesome and good and pure. I, on the other hand, played host to thoughts about burying my daughter.

When the cancer came back, it slipped into our lives with disturbing ease. Like a well-rehearsed routine, we went in for chemo appointments, infections, and the various other maladies associated with cancer. We already had white sheets to make dirt easy to detect, the super-strength cleaning products simply needed to be dusted, and we had all become so accustomed to a diet designed specifically for cancer patients, we never went back to 'real' food. No pun intended, but the manner in which the disease fit our family like a glove was sickening. It made me wonder if we were specifically designed for cancer, if it literally _chose_ us out of a line-up that took place before we were even born.

Every time I think that, I can't help but wonder what the hell we did to deserve it.

Perhaps the powers that be know that we _have _done nothing to deserve it, but that we--or, more specifically, I--_will _do something to deserve it. It's just…these thoughts…they become all-consuming, even if you hate them. A black hole in my mind, sucking up every hope for Megan I have.

There is a soft knock at the door. "It's open," I tell their shadows, stating the obvious. Our guests don't even have to push the knob; it is our personal policy to allow for easy access for doctors and nurses, if, G/d forbid, they suddenly need to get to Megan immediately. She hates this breach of privacy with a passion, but I am firm in keeping it. How awful would it be if Megan died because help couldn't get to her fast enough, even though she is in a hospital?

See, the only good thing about these thoughts is that they stay inside. Actions speak louder than words, especially those unsaid.

The first person to enter is a man about Shawn's age with bags under his eyes and ruffled brown hair. I vaguely remember passing him in the hallway earlier today when he was standing awkwardly outside the women's bathroom. I had found such solace in the fact that the world continues spinning and people are still being embarrassed that I had volunteered to go in and get the presumably young lady he was waiting for. (I doubted he would be so uncomfortable waiting for a girlfriend or wife.) He had blushed and shaken his head, but thanked me anyway.

Now, he turns to his partner in room-raiding and encourages her to come forth. Normally, my instincts do not allow for strange visitors--everybody we _really _need to see we meet with in a bland office--but I decide to let this one slide.

Suddenly, I hear Shawn gasp and a muffled cry escapes from Megan. I turn to them, looking for an explanation, but they can only stare in shock.

"Meg?"

The voice is small and tentative, but I recognize it immediately. Before I can get a glimpse of her, before I can see how much she's grown in the past few years, another voice interrupts me: "Joey?"

It's her sister's.

Johanna runs past the man, past Shawn, past me, and jumps ever-so gently onto the bed, where Megan eclipses her in a giant hug.

I let out a breath I did not even know I was holding and do not fail to notice that, for the first time in years, the hospital reminds me of home.


	5. Shawn and Wilson

_Disclaimer…I do not own anything_

_Author's Note…Boys will be boys. Hopefully, the conversation they will ensue in this chapter is balanced out by the deep stuff surrounding it. And I mean no offense to baseball fans. I myself love the Mets--especially this season! ;) Oh, and the name 'James' in the tale of Augusta's Bridge bears no relation to James Wilson. OR DOES IT! Errrm, no. It' doesn't._

"**What's in a name? That which we call a rose  
by any other name would smell as sweet"**

**-William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, (II, ii, 1-2)**

_**Shawn**_

When I first told my friends that I was moving to a town called Augusta's Bridge with Hilary and Megan, they had laughed in my face. "Augusta's Bridge," they mocked. "Who's the mayor? Some hardworking single mom who's man done her wrong?" One buddy even captioned it as "Augusta's Bridge: As featured on _Lifetime: Television for Women_." They were convinced that, after having a child for all of fifty-two days, I had converted into a softie. Another friend, who had just graduated with the rest of us, but with honors as the newspaper editor, even said that he should have dedicated his last installment to the "basketball star turned 'good, obliging, husband.'"

Although I would never admit it to the gang that always referred to me as Tommy and Hilary as Gina, it was _I _who insisted on moving to that small, Washington, town. The residents seemed genuinely nice, and the school system had a good record, but frankly; Hilary was more concerned with that type of thing.

The truth is; once I heard the tale that accompanied the town, I couldn't _not _live here.

Legend has it that the first settlers of the town was a pioneer named Alexander, his son, Paul, his daughter, Margaret, and his wife, Augusta. Now, at the time, this place was in the middle of nowhere and the four of them lived alone for about a month (they may or may not have been the lone survivors of a wagon train group gone awry) until one day, an admittedly ominous man visited the family. He went by the name James, and, although nobody recognized him, he swore he had a deep connection with them. "But we don't even know you," Alexander had insisted staunchly.

"No," James had agreed, "but you will."

Alexander had taken the prediction as a threat and ordered James to leave, but to no avail. James held his ground and, like a cancer, infiltrated himself into familial routine. And that was the way things were for a while; the family lived in fear with the stagnant threat.

Nowadays, the only river here is a slender creek that meanders through the town like talk but supposedly, when Alexander settled here, there was a thick river with a bridge stretching from one side to the other. To this day, nobody knows how it got there. Alexander and Paul had searched the town for skulls and skeletons, but found nothing. But it was a sign that life had once existed here, and it was the reason why the pioneers decided to stop wandering and settle.

This river was where Augusta and Margaret were doing the wash one day. Margaret was absorbed with the task at hand, but Augusta kept noticing things that were just…off. She begged her daughter to help her keep watch, but, in the grand tradition of teenagers rebelling just for the sake of it, Margaret chose to ignore her and tried to tell Augusta that there was nothing to worry about. But there was no convincing the woman and that was why, when James suddenly sprung out of a bush with a sharpened dagger in hand and made a move towards Margaret, Augusta was prepared.

The story gets blurry at this point. Some say Augusta killed James with her bare hands; others believe that when James saw Margaret was not alone, he fled, never to return; and still others insist that Augusta managed to summon a swarm of Green Darner Dragonflies, the Washington State Insect, which pushed James into the river and drowned him. Me, I like to think that James was a demon who didn't hold a candle to Augusta's love for her daughter. There are other versions, but the citizens can only agree on one point: Somehow, Augusta managed to protect her family and saved the young town from evil, and for this, we owe her a name.

I loved the story because somehow, even before cancer was a wink in the pediatrician's eye, I was positive that Hilary was going to save us all.

Nowadays, when I see the way Hilary looks at our daughter, I'm not so sure.

**XXXxxxXXX**

Maybe it's a belated teenage rebellion, or maybe it's an early mid-life crisis, or maybe it's a bizarre combination of the two, but a small part of me is absolutely certain that it is not the Earth that revolves around the Sun, but the Sun that revolves around us. Sorry Copernicus, but this part of myself resides in the same came as ancient Anaximander; For some reason, it's comforting to believe that the Earth is really a giant pillar in the center of everything, and the Moon and the Sun and the stars are really just holes through which we can see a fraction of the fire that surrounds us all. Maybe it's because I can identify with that theory; perhaps that's the part of me that knows the most acutely what it's like to be looking from the inside out.

But the rest of me accepts what the rest of the world does: us nine planets revolve around the sun, which is part of the Milky Way, which is part of the universe which, believe it or not, has an end. Turns out even infinity has its limits.

My cousin Matt wasn't an astronomer exactly, but he works for NASA now, and, when Hilary and I lived with him, and I faced insomnia while pregnancy-induced exhaustion put Hilary in bed by 9:30, he taught me everything he knew. I remember on one warm August evening, he explained the wonders of gravity. It exists everywhere, even in space, apparently. It's what keeps us in orbit with the sun, what keeps us from wandering off into supernovas and black holes. It's what keeps us together.

I suppose this is why when Johanna showed up out of nowhere not more than a few hours ago, I wasn't completely surprised.

Now that I have finally snuck her away from Hilary and Megan so I can get some food in this girl, we can really talk.

"So," I say, taking a huge bite out of my half of the peanut-butter and jelly sandwich I swiped from a nurse that doesn't work on the floor either of my daughters will be on, "been a while."

Johanna nods and nibbles at the crust of her half.

"Of course," I say, the memory dawning on me. "The only kid in America that doesn't like peanut-butter."

She nods again. "Can I eat the chips instead?" Johanna asks, motioning towards the bag of _Lays_ that's probably only half-full.

I push it towards her. "How've you been?" Probably starving, judging by the speed in which she consumes the chips.

"Fine."

I raise my eyebrows at her. "Remember my rule about one-word answers?"

She frowns. "No…"

"That's because I never had to make one. You always said exactly what was on your mind."

She shrugs her own personality change off and sticks her finger in the bag for crumbs. I sigh; if she doesn't give me answers on her own, I'm going to have to ask her the hard questions.

"How are you feeling?" It's a start.

"Well," she says, plucking at her sweatshirt, "It's like I got all this extra bone marrow inside and I really just want to just get rid of it already."

Whenever I heard someone say that they forgot how much they missed a person, I always rolled my eyes. How can you _forget _how much of something you do if you're still doing it? The statement always reminded me of an equal ratio of stupid and impossible, but I find myself thinking it. "We're all pretty anxious to get Megan better," I agree.

She crumples the bag into a ball, and shoots it into a trash can about five feet away, but falls short just a few inches.

"Hey, you could have landed that shot _easy _a few years ago. You forget our lessons?" I tease.

But a distant look clouds up Johanna's eyes. "I didn't forget anything," she says without looking at me. This is how I know that it's time to have the conversation I've been prepping myself for but have been delaying second after second, minute after minute.

"So you want to hear something funny," I say slowly, giving Johanna plenty of opportunities to interrupt, none of which she takes. "The man you came with says he's your biological father, giving him legal guardianship over you, and allowing him to say it's ok to do the transplant…but you haven't called him Dad. Not once."

Johanna doesn't just look at me, she _stares me down_, the closeness of our old relationship spilling onto both of us in a sudden rush. "He doesn't care what I call him."

That's good; Johanna should be able to call him the most obscene of names and he should still love her without the thought of wavering even occur to him.

But, like a shallow boost to my humble ego, I'm somewhat pleased that Johanna has known no other 'Dad' besides me.

"Johanna," I say softly, wading through emotions that are frankly much too deep for me, "you can call him whatever you want, but if he's not your father, and he doesn't have the rights…then this is illegal."

She bites her lip as _she_ wades through matters that an eighty-year-old shouldn't have to go through, much less an eight-year-old. "Then he's my father. Alright? I'll even call him 'Daddy' if it means that much."

And with that, she turns away and runs out of the cafeteria. "Wait!" I call it out right before the doors swing open and she turns around to shoot me an angry glance.

At least she tries to. Because when the doors swing shut again, they hit her right on the head, rendering her completely unconscious.

Gravity, you know, is stronger than anyone can ever reallyimagine. It's like a thread of thought you want to put in your hand just so you can exert some control over it. It can pull in everything. Even comets, those beautiful balls of dust and ice that travel in the oddest and most unexpected directions, will always come back to you.

This is what I'm thinking as the man Johanna came with and I race towards her simultaneously, each desperately trying to apply enough gravity to bring this poor girl home.

**XXXxxxXXX**

_**Wilson**_

_5:56_

Tick.

_5:56_

Tick.

Longest damn minute of my life.

Tick.

_5:56_

Tick.

_5:57_

I was stupid to think the passing of a minute would bring relief.

Tick.

_5:57_

Tick.

The door opens suddenly and youthful doctor emerges, X-Ray in hand. "She'll be fine," she says before Shawn and I can even ask. "Just a minor concussion."

Shawn and I both breathe sighs of relief. "Can we go see her?" I hear Shawn ask.

The doctor, who I feel forever indebted to, holds the door out for us. "You guys were so cute out there. You two looked like expectant fathers, just pacing away."

Oh, the hilarity. I ignore the doctor I liked so much just a few seconds ago and rush right in, but Shawn is more hesitant. It occurs to me that Shawn has about as much experience with hospitals as I do, in my field even, but he is on the other side of the glass.

"Don't trip over your lab-coat on the way out," Shawn mutters under his breath to the doctor, apparently also embittered by the doctor's flippant treatment of Johanna. I chuckle under my breath appreciatively and hope that I have never treated a patient like that. Suddenly, I gain a new respect for House's "I-Don't-See-Patients" policy.

I don't exactly know when a bond was forged between Shawn and me, but it is there, as strong and tangible as blood. We each take a seat on either side of Johanna's bed, and I flick on the small television. A baseball game is on, and we watch it silently.

"I hate baseball," Shawn says after a few comfortable minutes.

"Why?"

"Because you can't explain it."

I frown. "Of course you can. There's a diamond and in the middle of it there's a small hill, and that's where the pitcher stands-"

"What's a pitcher," Shawn interrupts, playing the devil's advocate.

"Well, he's the one who throws the ball," I say, joining the game with much less reluctance than I would have guessed.

"To who?"

"The batter."

"What's he do?"

"He hits it."

"Where? What if he misses?" He grins at my startled expression. "Told you."

I keep my eyes trained to the television. "Baseball's the slutty sport anyway."

Out of the corner of my eye, Shawn smirks. "Why's that?"

"It puts out every day…and it's basically all the same plays, no new tactics or strategies. Essentially, the same thing happens over and over again. There's no mystery, and the only shock you get is when someone does something _wrong_. Don't get me started on Buckner. But football on the other hand; you look forward to it every week. And you _know _those coaches are working their asses off just to make sure the other team never knows what's coming. So they never know what hit them." I pause. "Pun intended."

"And yet, football is the sport with all the sexy cheerleaders." But then the highly amused expression leaves Shawn's face as he glances at Johanna's sleeping body. "I _really _hope she can't hear any of this."

"Yeah," I agree. "Her mother'll kill me."

"Nah, Johanna would never tell Hilary something like this. Megan, maybe, but not Johanna."

"No, her mother's name is--" Then, as abruptly as a knock to the head, I realize what he meant. My breathing suddenly becomes shallow, and my heart twisted, erratically trying to pump blood to my brain. What it does not understand is that there is no room for anything other than this sickening knowledge.

"I didn't mean-" Shawn says immediately, sincerely trying to apologize, but I cannot hear him over the sound of my own shock.

"I'm going to call her mother," I tell Shawn distantly, getting up to leave. "And I mean her _real _mother. The one that's…" _Not here._

"The one that's at home. _Her_ _real_ _mother_," I finish and wait a beat. "Her name is Allie." _Her name is Allie._

But mothers don't let their children roam the dangerous world, without caring so much as to even call. _Her name is Allie. _Johanna's mother didn't do that to her. _Her name is Allie. _That's the kind of thing my own mother does, to innocent people like Bryan. _Her name is Allie. _The woman I love doesn't do stuff like that. She…couldn't.

_Her name is Allie. Her name is Allie. Her name is Allie._

But as many times as I repeat it to myself as I walk vacantly down the hall, I cannot bring myself to believe it.


	6. Hilary and Cameron

_Disclaimer…I don't own anything, including the song 'Hotel California' or 'Tequila Sunrise' by the Eagles. But oh, if I did…_

_Author's Note…The thing about writing stories, for me at least, is that when I start it, I never exactly know where it is going. I have a plot, a storyline, (hopefully) unique characters, and the inevitable problem. I just don't know how it will end, and I like it that way; it's my hope that by the end of my story, my characters can create their own futures. Plus, it's kind of fun wondering where they will take me. The purpose of this little tidbit of information is to inform my readers that this 'fic is officially Going Somewhere. That's right, folks…an actual location. Located in the abstract corners of your mind, population: make it up. And sorry for taking so long to put out this chapter!_

"**I had to find the passage back  
To the place I was before  
'Relax,' said the night man,  
'We are programmed to receive.  
You can check-out any time you like,  
But you can never leave!'**

**-The Eagles, _'Hotel California'_**

_**Hilary**_

Facts, cold and calculating, reel in my mind, an ethical battle waged against myself. There are simply too many things to consider; what would Shawn think? What would the girls think? Would I be betraying Megan? Johanna came here by her own choice; would I be betraying _her_? In the dark recesses of my mind, I can work out that _someone_ would get hurt, were I to go through with my plan, but those are the only consequences I am able to comprehend.

But say I _weren't _to go through with my plan…would I be betraying Johanna's birth mother--the one she lives with now? There is an unwritten code between mothers, and I'm sure there is a subsection of the first rule (never let a fellow mom'skid walk into oncoming traffic, however vague the title of 'mom' may be) that I would be breaking.

But rules and standards only twist my mind further into the mess I know I must have gotten _myself _into. Because…well, if everything did go according to plan, then right now, _I_ wouldbe Johanna's mother, and this wouldn't even be an issue. Of course, I am referring to the plan that was made a couple years ago; a plan that involved Ms. Harding, a few signatures, and a small, silver charm in the shape of _neu erh_, the Chinese symbol for 'daughter.'

I sigh and turn my attention to the small slip of paper in my hand. Letting my mind wander off is only a temporary high, nothing that will last.

Stealing is a crude term to use, but I suppose that is what I have done. I _stole _the number from the man that introduced himself as James' cell-phone. It was all too easy, really. After Shawn had taken Johanna down for a bite to eat, and we had instructed James to bring all of his luggage down to 1818 Waxberry Road, which was where we lived, Megan had drifted off to slightly drugged sleep and James just so happened to leave his jacket here--with his cell-phone in his pocket.

I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose, but still, he did it and it was a prospect I was sure I wouldn't get again. Luck is when preparation meets opportunity, and I suppose I have been preparing for this moment ever since Johanna was taken away. Never one to let a chance go to waste--if only because chance means 'hope'--I broke into his phone-book and found the number to his house.

Apparently, there are two 'houses' in James' life. One of them is a place; the other is a person. A person who did not hesitate to inform me that I was a moron…why couldn't I differentiate between 'House' and simply 'home'?

Really, he should have forgiven my confusion because everybody, or at least everybody with _some_ luck in their lives, has a home away from home. And usually, that alternate home is not an actual place, but a person. I guess James is simply a very literal person.

"What are you doing?"

If I hadn't seen that James entered the room, I would've sworn the voice belonged to my conscience.

I turn to James with guilt spread across my face like glaring red handprints. "Nothing," I tell him hastily, my voice very similar to that of a five-year-old's, stealing sweets from the proverbial cookie jar.

James gestures towards the slip of paper I am holding. "What's that?"

"Nothing," I insist, but I can tell he doesn't believe me. As he shouldn't.

Abruptly, he makes a grab for the paper and I reflexively yank it behind my back. This doesn't stop him, and his hand snakes around my waist, searching the hills and valleys of my spine for my hand.

I grin at him. "You'll never get it," I tease, my words littered with deeper meanings and double entendres.

"Oh, but I will," he warns good-humoredly. And with that, his hand finds mine and, without pausing to notice how intimate the touch was, he pulls the paper out and reads the number in his head.

I know what will happen when he finishes reading, but suddenly, I do not care. There are shivers creeping down my skin and even as I am twisting my wedding ring, I do not worry that I won't be able to stop myself from falling into bed with this man.

I was on the other side of an affair once, when Megan was a little girl. Shawn is not aware that I know of his transgression, but I had followed the relationship passively, never confronting my husband. I can't say I was surprised, and maybe it's better that way. I may have only have a high school education, but I'm not stupid; Even then, I knew what the chances of a successful marriage when both spouses were so young. Imagine my shock when, after a month and a half or so, I realized that the affair had ended.

"_Hello_!" I blink; James is waving the small piece of paper around in my face, trying to awaken me from my daze. "_What the hell were you doing with this_?"

I exhale slowly, and do not even bother to fabricate a lie. "I was going to call her," I explain calmly.

His hands are trembling; apparently, my plan has hit a nerve. "I'll call her," he says, each word laced with anger. "I'll call her."

But it seems that _neither _of us will ring her. Judging from the Caller ID on James' cell-phone, she has beaten us to the chase.

**XXXxxxXXX**

_**Cameron**_

I remember that way back when Jimmy got a new cell-phone, and we stayed up one night working out the kinks of it, we had found a setting that enabled us to choose how many rings the phone will sound out before redirecting the caller to the voice box. Jimmy wanted six, at least; he thought he should get a second chance…and a third chance, a fourth chance, and so on.

Me; not so much. I figured that first of all, _no one _would stick around for six rings unless it was of utmost importance and, if it was that paramount, Jimmy really should have picked up on the first ring. Second of all, if the caller had something to ask him, say, how her kidnapped daughter was doing, they didn't deserve to be left dangling on the edge of a cliff.

Eventually, Jimmy had won out because after all, it was his phone. This is why I found myself in a little rut in the couch, with Van Morrison playing in the backround, listening to four freaking rings.

Finally, on the fifth ring, I hear a small, resigned click as someone picks up. "Hello," asks the voice which is tentative, shaken, and, most importantly, feminine.

"Who is this?" I demand immediately.

I hear a sigh. "Is Johanna your daughter?"

Through and through. "Yes."

"You're her mother?"

In the back of my mind, I understand who this woman is, although I really don't want to. "Yes."

"Well, here's the problem," the woman says, with something I cannot identify intertwining her words, "so am I."

**XXXxxxXXX**

For some reason, I can't help but remember the day Johanna was born. I know the process of childbirth is supposed to take time, a lot of time, but Johanna was born in a neat three and a half hours. It was fast and blurred, yet somehow I remember every second, every contraction untwisting in my belly.

I nearly killed her, you know. The cord was wrapped around her little throat, choking her. It took the doctors longer than usual to get precious oxygen into her system, and, during those few pivotal moments, the nurses comforted me. "It's my fault," I remember telling them, crying. When one especially dense nurse said that she couldn't work out how that was so, I told her that the cord was originally attached to _me_, and maybe if I had walked at a certain angle or slept in a different position, we wouldn't be in this position.

"Honey," the nurse responded, "this has nothing to do with you."

The shock of her statement, the notion that maybe I wasn't to blame (and my medical experience supported this idea) was still washing over me when a relieved doctor placed the tiny baby into my arms. "Look at her," he said with a hint of anxiety in his voice, "she's just fine."

"No," I countered, "she's perfect."

And she's mine.

My life's experiences at that point--which included Bryan dying, Joe cutting things off, losing contact with my parents, being completely and utterly _alone_--had led me to believe one thing: If I did not give something…or _someone_…up, I would lose them.

I had always known that it would come to this, that I would have to walk away from Johanna or she would leave herself, but I was never really _prepared_ for it. Which was why as soon as the words left my lips, as soon as I understood it to be true, I gave that little baby back to the doctor. "You can hold her for a few minutes before we clean her up," he told me, obviously thinking I would be getting her back.

"No," I informed him sadly, "you have to take her. Now."

Before I break her.

**XXXxxxXXX**

"Is Jim--_James_ there?" I harshly ask this woman who _dares _to call herself Johanna's mother.

There is a sigh, then a distinct fumbling noise, and finally; Jimmy himself. "Allie?"

I hate it, I hate it _so much_, but at the sound of his voice, relief floods through my veins and back to my heart. _Thank goodness_, I think. _Thank goodness she's not all alone. _"Jimmy," I sigh, then remember I'm furious at him. "What the hell have you done with my daughter?"

It takes a second too long for him to reply. "She's…downstairs."

Apparently, the other woman sensed that there was something wrong with his answer as well. "What happened?" I hear her ask urgently, but I do not hear a response.

"Jimmy," I say warningly, and repeat her question.

"Listen, Allie, she's got a little concussion, but she's going to be fine…" I hear a gasp almost identical to my own.

"She's _fine_," I hear Jimmy quietly insist to the other woman. "…Yeah, right downstairs. Room 312…_Yes_, Shawn's with her…Allie, you still there? Allie?"

"Yeah, I'm here," I hear myself say a little breathlessly. "What…what happened to Johanna?"

"It's just a little bump on the head--"

"_It's a concussion_."

"Yeah, but--"

"Who examined her?" I ask tersely. "What was the doctor's name?"

"Dr. Friedman."

"How old is she?" I am slightly impressed with my interrogating skills. I'm sure this is what House means when he says 'take a patient history.'

"She's young but don't worry about Johanna. Cameron, this town, this _family_…it's like Johanna's 'Hotel California'."

I rack my mind for the lyrics to the Eagles song. But I only memorized my favorites, and frankly, I was always more of a 'Tequila Sunrise' kind of girl. Suddenly, there is a frantic beeping on the other end of the line and James mutters a curse word before whispering desperately to me, "we're running out of time."

He's wrong, I realize as I walk slowly to my room, and start pulling clothes out of the closet. Time, that beautiful, horrible catalyst, has evaporated. If I want something to change, I have to make it happen myself.

You know, another word for initiate is 'beginning.' But going to this town Ms. Harding just last night; it won't be a beginning. I'm joining _in media res_ and I'm going to have to wipe my maternal slate clean to understand anything about this life Johanna has obviously not let go of.

If only I can figure out how.


	7. Wilson and Shawn

_Disclaimer…I don't own anything_

_Author's Note…I must have rewritten this chapter at least five times before I finally got it right. Finally, something clicked. I hope you enjoyed reading as much I enjoyed writing--when I finished Shawn's part, I totally squeed. (And yes, I do love astronomy. It's just so…honestly, when we learned about it in Earth Science, I took two sets of notes; one for studying and referencing for my homework, and the other was a list of metaphors and such I could create! Don't laugh.)_

"**There shall be wings! If the accomplishment be not for me, 'tis for some other."**

**-Leonardo da Vinci**

_**Shawn**_

Hilary didn't want to leave Megan, and James didn't want to leave Johanna, so, in the end, it was me who was sent to Seattle to pick up 'Allison' at the airport. From what the two have told me, they had a series of three cell-phone conversations with her, and that's how many it took for Allison to decide to come here.

As I wait in the terminal, I find myself wondering about this woman that has been raising Johanna for the past couple of years. There is this image of her in my head--she has slits for eyes; pale, gray skin with veins spreading out under it like a map; and thin hair that hangs lank around her pointed face. It strikes me that she bears an uncanny resemblance of the antagonist of the _Harry Potter _series I read to Megan a lifetime ago, but I cannot remember his name, and I hope this is no reflection on my personality.

Johanna has always reminded me of the asteroid belt that hangs between Jupiter, named after the Roman god who was, quite simply, the father of the set, and Mars, whose namesake is the god of fertility. The belt, lying between the two givers of life, is the destroyed remains of a planet. Millions of years ago, it was terrestrial, whole, intact. Now it is only the broken fragments of what once was, but still; it keeps on circling the sun, even though it was something in the gravitational pull that got it hurt in the first place.

But maybe for Allison, Johanna isn't the asteroid belt. Maybe she's Pluto. It has been speculated that Pluto was once a moon to a mother planet, but somehow, some catastrophic event hit it out into space. The planet never wanted it to happen, she wanted to _keep _her moon, she loved it, but what choice did she have?

Pluto never returned to its original home, but Johanna went back to Allison. And now, it seems, she's left. Why do I feel like I kidnapped her?

A cool voice announces that Flight 0191, coming in from New Jersey, has arrived. A welcome-wagon of about ten people, all wearing loud, Hawaiian print shirts, rush towards the small portal where the passengers will emerge from. The couple beside me roll their eyes but drift towards the door, as do the rest of the people in the terminal. I stand apart from them, though, because I am sure that Allison would rather see her boss that Hilary described to me during a rare moment of marital normalcy than myself.

Suddenly, she is before me. Although there is no logical way she could have realized who I was, it makes absolute sense that she sought me out. Some parents are interchangeable, I think, and it strikes me that the reason Johanna was able to transition back to us so fast is not because she has spent the last two years living in the past, but because the present was just a variation of it. Family, I realize, is chronic.

"Allison?" I say with a hint of questioning mingling with my tone.

She nods. "But it's easier if I'm 'Allie'. And you're…?"

"Shawn," I say promptly and privately agree that everything is easier if we're all under aliases. "Is this all your luggage?" I ask, gesturing towards densely-packed bags on either side of her.

Allie looks at them as if she forgot they ever existed, mutters an "uh-huh," and picks one up. But it's too heavy; she wobbles a bit and I hurry forward to take it from her before she collapses.

"Thanks," she says appreciatively, and I take a good look at her.

Allie has reddish-brown hair that is a little limp today, and wide eyes that I can tell change color. She wears tattered jeans, and a ratty old shirt I bet she bought when she was in college. There's not a lot of color in her cheeks, but she has a certain aura around her that I can't quite identify. Allie is slim, except for the very slight pudge in her belly that she is trying to hide with the shirt. This is obviously our first meeting, but I feel like I know her, and not through Johanna.

Finally, I realize it; this is the mental image I have of the girl from Billy Joel's _Vienna._

With me holding one bag, and Allie shakily holding the other, we walk out of the airport and towards the car. As we drive to the hospital, the only place open at 7:30 in the morning, I realize the other woman she reminds me of: Hilary.

She is the Hilary from fifteen years ago, at Senior Prom, guarding a secret from herself

Call it instinct, ESP, or arrogance, I don't care, but somehow, I am sure that Allie has the exact same one.

I have never been one to beat around the bush, to avoid dramas. It's not that I'm confrontational--but why put something off until tomorrow if you can just as well do it today? Plus, I am sure that while this secret won't make an appearance for a while yet (but those months really fly by if you're still a teenager, and far from prepared, which is how I remember it), somehow, it will come to head here in good 'ole Augusta's Bridge.

"So," I say conversationally, my head heavy with the knowledge that I am losing any chance of making an ally with Allie, "when are you due?"

She doesn't bat an eye, but she doesn't look at me either. "I don't know what you're talking about," she replies evenly.

"Yeah, ok," I scoff. Maybe she hasn't been examined by a doctor yet, but she sees one every day when she looks in the mirror. And, for that matter, into the eyes of her oblivious boyfriend.

We pull into the parking lot and sit there for a little. "Listen," Allie finally says, "now's just not a good time."

"For this conversation?" I ask as she opens the door. "Or for this baby?"

Half-way out, she freezes. "I haven't even taken a test yet," she tells me slowly as she sits back down in the passenger seat, suddenly looking very small.

I smile and wrap a friendly arm around her stiff shoulders. "We _are _at a hospital."

She nods quietly, and wipes her eyes. "I don't want to do it alone." There is an uncomfortable silence. "The test, I mean," Allie clarifies.

This isn't exactly what I imagined we would be doing. "I'll…wait with you," I volunteer, regretting it even as the words leave my mouth.

"You don't have to."

There is a correct response to this, I know there is. If there's a wrong, there has to be a right, right? "I'll do it anyway," I try.

Apparently, this is at least a semi-correct answer, because twenty-five minutes later, I am pacing like an--haha--expectant father outside the ladies bathroom, waiting for Allie to come out. I'm never good at things like this; the entire way to the restroom, I prattled on and on about how _convenient _it was that the pharmacy carried home-pregnancy tests.

Allie walks out of the bathroom, carrying a thin, white stick. "You hold it," she says. "I don't want to know first." She waits a beat. "Blue if I'm pregnant. The clearer it is, the more knocked up I am."

A moment passes, and a bold, brazen line appears on the stick. "Blue if you're pregnant?" I ask, just to make sure.

She keeps her eyes trained in front of her. "Blue if I'm pregnant."

I wait a beat, and I can swear that the soft rhythm I hear is Allie's heart, thumping against her chest.

Then I congratulate her.

**XXXxxxXXX**

_**Wilson**_

After a grand total of seven hours of unconsciousness, Johanna has finally come to. I have always hated that saying; _come to. _Come to _what_? This world that Johanna's reentering, it's not so great. And judging from the look in her eyes when she asks what's going on, she knows it.

Johanna sits up in the hospital bed, and pulls her knees to her chest. Gingerly, she rubs the large bump that rests just above her forehead.

"You got hit with a door," I answer before she even asks.

Johanna blinks, and I can tell her thoughts are fuzzy. "A door?" she echoes.

I nod. "It swung open and _bam_. Right to the head," I tell her, making wild gestures with my hands in an effort to make her laugh.

"Must have been kinda funny," she says, a tinge of embarrassment creeping into her voice.

"Oh, it was _very _funny," I assure her. "Once we knew you were going to be ok, we laughed and we laughed."

"Oh." She pauses for a moment. "We?"

"The three of us," I lie. "Me, myself, and I."

Johanna blinks, disbelieving. "There are three of you?"

"I thought that one just wasn't enough." Maybe it's true. If there were three of me, I could be with here with Johanna, trying to make her forget all these obligations; at the airport with Allie, trying to regain the trust she surely doesn't have in me anymore; and in the past with Bryan, trying to make up for lost time.

Johanna smiles, a real, genuine smile. "I don't believe you."

She is giggling a little bit now, but I know she has caught me. I'm wrapped around her little finger and, while I could lie to the three individual women who I vowed to spend the rest of my life with, I cannot find it in me to weave tales to Johanna and let her believe them. Maybe it's because she's Bryan's daughter, maybe it's because she's Allie's daughter, maybe it's because she's better than that, but I just can't do it.

The door opens suddenly, and Shawn walks in, holding two suitcases I vaguely recognize. "Johanna, are you going to let this guy lie to you?" he asks, his voice reverberating pleasantly in the bland room.

"No," she tells him, and giggles more. "But I need help getting the truth out of him!"

"You? Need help? I don't think so!" Shawn raises a joking eyebrow, and I realize that he is different around Johanna--and Megan too, I guess--than he is around Hilary and me. It's a façade every caregiver puts on for children, even when all parties involved know the hard truth. It makes me wonder; who are we putting the show on for? The kids--or ourselves?

"I do," Johanna insists, really laughing now.

"Nah, I don't believe it."

Johanna quiets down and looks at the two bags. "Those look like the ones we have at home," she observes, and I see a dejected look flash across Shawn's face so quickly that I have to second-guess whether it was really there at all. "But I decorated them once," Johanna continues. "I painted the handle--"

"Orange?" Shawn interrupts, holding up the handle with a turtle's shell of cracked orange coating on the surface.

Allie suddenly emerges from behind him, and she only has to look at Johanna once before she pushes past Shawn and me to get to her. Although her rush is clumsy and awkward, she sits on the hospital bed very carefully, as so not to rattle Johanna, who is staring slack-jawed at her mother. "Mommy," she whispers, as if uttering the name too loudly will make her go away. But I'm guilty of this too, which is why I can only stare without saying anything.

"Honey," Allie answers. "Johanna." And I feel like I'm part of an audience, watching an oft-repeated scene in my favorite movie.

I suppose this is how I know I've changed; my favorite movie _used _to be _Rambo_, and I don't recall any mother-daughter scenes.

A half-smile creeps across Shawn's face at the image, then he gives me a brief nod and leaves, yesterday's fight forgotten.

A doctor with skin the color of coffee walks in before Allie even glances at me. "Dr. Webster!" Johanna exclaims happily.

He smiles at the three of us, not so much seeing the classic big, happy family, but more the potential for one. "How are you doing today, Johanna?" he asks with a faint Southern accent.

Unconsciously, Johanna rubs the large bump and winces at the touch. "Fine," she says untruthfully.

Dr. Webster smiles and crosses his arms. "Johanna, why do you insist on lying to me today?"

Suddenly, I realize the answer: Johanna thinks that if she's not in perfect health, then she won't be able to do the bone marrow harvest. She is partially correct; a real ailment would prevent the immunocompromised Megan from _receiving _the bone marrow, and some doctors--including myself--would doubt how wise it would be for Johanna to undergo such a draining procedure while recovering from a concussion. But it's not as though we have time to spare.

"James," Allie suddenly says before Johanna can answer, "can we talk? Outside?"

This is far from the time and place, but Allie has not made eye-contact with me at all, and a nagging feeling tells me that putting this off will only hinder our relationship.

Almost immediately after we are safe in the hallway, Allie hugs me, her arms meeting each other across my back. It's really only been a couple days, but it feels like a lifetime since we've last done this. I try to kiss her, but she moves her head at the last moment, so my lips only meet her hair, but for some reason; I really don't care.

When we break apart, the first thing Allie does is slap me across the face. "Don't you _ever _do that again. _Ever._"

"I won't," I promise. "Ever."

This time, _I_ hug _her_ and I can feel her hot tears soaking their way through my shirt and onto my skin. I can swear it's burning me.

As if alerted by a silent timer, we sit down onto the stiff orange chairs that really aren't half as close to each other as they should be.

"What are we going to do?" I ask after a few moments of comfortable silence.

It takes her a while to answer. "I don't want Johanna to do this."

"I don't either, but--"

"Let me finish," Allie cuts in, her voice as sharp and startling as a knife. "I don't want Johanna to do this. But…but what if it was the other way around? What if it was Johanna who needed bone marrow? I couldn't…I couldn't lose her, especially if there was someone who could have helped. And I know we can't go back to the way we were, especially with this new baby, but…we can still be happy, right?"

Allie waits for an answer, but she's lost me. What baby?


	8. The End: Cameron and Hilary

_Disclaimer…I don't own anything. Stop asking. _

_Author's Note…The last part of this chapter is all…well, without giving too much away, true. And totally planned. I'm pretty happy with it. It does get a little supernatural though. Also, this is the last chapter…but I'm definitely going to write an epilogue. Expect it to be up…soonish. After that, I have a new story, Wilson-centric, that I'm very excited about. I've already planned the entire thing out on paper, and I wrote the prologue. I have to say, it's one of my favorite things I've ever written…second only to the last chapter of 'Rest In Peace.' Enjoy!_

"**Fate leads the willing, and drags along the reluctant."**

**-Seneca Quote**

_**Hilary**_

I am sitting with a sleeping Megan, watching a muted Spanish soap opera, when Shawn suddenly starts massaging my shoulders. I did not hear him enter, and I did not see him, but I would recognize his style anywhere. His fingers rub obtuse circles into my shoulder blades and make their way down my back, my spinal cord like a mountain range with peaks and valleys, the width of my bra like a flat plateau. I remember shortly after Megan was born; Shawn had told me that maybe doctors were like cartographers, but working with a smaller scale. I had laughed and reminded him that, if he had paid any attention in Global History, he would have remembered that Da Vinci, a man who had made his name more in art than medicine, had made remarkable strides in anatomy to make his subjects more realistic. A year ago, we had been in high school, and a part of me was still holding onto that last scrap of childhood--the know-it-all part.

"What's this for?" I ask, relaxation lacing into my words, like a lost paradise.

"I just think things are going to work out," he says.

"For better or for worse?"

"For better," he says. "They always work out for the better."

I do not agree, but I like his logic. "So you think Megan's going to be ok?"

"Absolutely," Shawn tells me, confidence decorating the word like paints on our front door for Halloween.

A heavy weight settles into the pit of my stomach, and I guess you can say that it has entered the belly of the beast. This rock is really just guilt, solidified, and it is all-consuming. It's not that I don't _want _Megan to be healthy again--I just don't think she will be. And even if she physically recovers, she was so _depressed _when she went into remission last time…I know it was in part due to losing her sister…

And that's when it strikes me. Death is not the only way a mother can lose her child. A daughter can run away, be kidnapped, or even _willingly _taken away.

I should have realized this so long ago. The revelation should have occurred to me about two years ago, when Ms. Harding called, saying that Johanna's mother had called her, and wanted to see her child. I wanted none of it--how could that _possibly _end well? -- and had angrily asked if she knew that Johanna had a sister now--that the bone marrow transplant had gone without a hitch.

Ms. Harding had responded that she simply informed 'the mother', as she called her, that Johanna had basically been from home to home.

"But she's been with us for nearly a year," I had insisted.

"How could I tell her that it was permanent when we both know it may very well not be?"

"_But we're going to adopt Johanna_," I informed her.

Ms. Harding was quiet for a long moment. "You can't build a reputation on what you're goingto do," she had quoted. "Mrs. Rightman, I understand that you and your family, especially your real daughter, have a special bond with Johanna, but imagine the positions were reversed. Imagine you had only known her for a day or two before you gave her up to a better life. Imagine you hadn't seen her for six years, and when you finally got the chance, turns out the woman that's replaced you doesn't want you two to meet. And your daughter just might have gone through with it too, but this woman is the closest thing to a mother she's got and she doesn't want to betray her."

"It's _daughters_. I have two," I had told Ms. Harding stubbornly. "Now you imagine something. Imagine that your daughter just recovered from a fatal disease, and the only reason she's still alive today is because the little girl from the foster system had enough HLA's in common with her to donate bone marrow. Imagine you've told this child that it's proof that she belongs in this family. Imagine she believes you. Imagine getting a Mother's Day card from her. Imagine--"

"Mrs. Rightman," Ms. Harding had interrupted in a very gentle tone, "imagine _not _getting a Mother's Day card. But from your other daughter."

I had remained silent, and today, I still regret every word that was left unsaid. I like to think that it's floating in limbo along with the babies that were never born, the dreams that were never realized.

"Give the woman this chance. Give _Johanna _this chance."

So we had. We backed away from the adoption papers and Ms. Harding had told Johanna's _real _mother (how I hated that phrase) that Johanna was basically open for custody, and just in a Social Services home. That we balked at the last minute.

So Johanna left. But not before telling me that she knew who her real 'mama' was.

**XXXxxxXXX**

I turn to Shawn. "What about Johanna?"

He frowns. "You mean with the concussion? Hil, she's already awake. She'll be just fine."

"I know that. I mean I don't want to lose her."

"Again," Shawn says so quietly under his breath that I have to wonder if it was just in my head. "Hilary, it's out of our control. We got through it then, we'll get through it now, too."

But I don't think I will be able to do that. How can a mother stand to make the same mistake twice?

**XXXxxxXXX**

_**Cameron**_

Funny, this was pretty much the same way I told Bryan I was pregnant.

It was his Great Depression. You know, the real tragedy of that dark part in history was not the unemployment rates or the hunger. It was that it was directly preceded by The Roaring 20's. Life wasn't perfect, but it was pretty damn close, and all that goodness went down in the chute in the blink of an eye. It's like coming back from a Caribbean vacation to a freezing winter; it's hard to get used to the cold when you're still tan.

Anyway, we were arguing as we often did during that awful twelve-day period, and I just blurted it out. He had been complaining about the smell of the fried onions on my grilled cheese. "If you keep eating junk like that," he said, "I'll die of toxic shock."

What he hadn't known was that he would die _months_ before he met the being that was causing him so much distress.

I look at his brother now and, for the very first time, see Bryan. On the surface, they look practically nothing alike but if you, like me, have studied the way they furrow their brows or the way they crease their forehead, then the similarities are obvious.

"What baby?" Jimmy asks, bewildered.

I smiley weakly, only mildly surprised that I have let the same huge thing slip twice, and let my hand trace the small ridge of his cheekbone. "Our baby," I answer.

"Ours?" He is still in shock and gesticulates wildly, waving his pointer finger between the two of us. "As in, yours and mine?"

"No, as in hers and _mine_," some asshole randomly shouts. I look around and notice and that the hallway is suddenly much smaller than it was five minutes ago, more crowded.

Jimmy looks as though he is still deciding whether to laugh or cry. He settles for the former and sits down on a rigid plastic chair. "How do you want to celebrate?" he wants to know.

I laugh too and wipe my eyes...not that I was crying or anything. "With alcohol, and lots of it," I joke, and wonder when the next time I drink will be.

Our plans for celebration are cut short though, when a doctor with fine blonde hair approaches us, with Shawn and his wife in tow. "We need to talk," she says.

**XXXxxxXXX**

Apparently, our 'unique situation', as Dr. Monroe calls it, has earned the attention of another doctor, an _objective _one (they say it as if such a thing exists) to discuss whether or not Johanna will donate bone marrow to Megan. We move to her office, where a Dr. Webster is waiting for us.

"When a kid is sick," Dr. Monroe says, "the lines between right and wrong become very blurred. It's hard to care about morals when it is your child's life on the line. The thing we have to keep in mind is--"

"With all due respect, Dr.," Shawn interrupts, "we really don't need this." But his wife puts her hand on his and motions for Dr. Monroe to go on.

"Actually," I say before I can stop myself, "we already reached a decision." This isn't true exactly, Jimmy and I have never discussed it, but when it comes right down to it; it is _me_ that will be signing the consent forms. "She's going to do it."

Shawn's wife stares at me for a minute as though she isn't sure whether or not to believe me. "You'll…she…?"

She trails off and I nod to questions unasked. Suddenly, she gets up and grabs my hand, dragging me out the door into the non-privacy of the hallway.

"I'm Hilary," she says. "And I have to ask you something."

I blink at her.

"I know this is not the time, or the place, but I just…it's just something I have to know. You're the only other one who knows what it's like and I'm so sorry for this and I know it must hurt--"

"I'm the only one who knows what _what's _like?"

She wipes her eyes one the paisley sleeve of her shirt. "To let them go."

I find myself studying the purple and green swirls on her shirt. The curves I thought would end up as circles are, in reality, winding paths and I wonder whether or not they are going inwards, towards a single destination; or outward, opening itself to a world of possibilities.

I look at Hilary, study the lines etched into her face, and, for a moment, we understand each other perfectly.

**XXXxxxXXX**

Fate has a funny way of never letting you forget what you have done. I suppose most people get gentle reminders of their past, in the forms of four-leaf clovers suddenly growing in abundance on their front lawn, or clouds forming the fluffy profile of someone who is long gone.

Maybe my reminders are so obvious because I managed to miss all the obscure ones. Perhaps if I had been listening for it, I would have noticed that the whir of a helicopter passing over my head has an uncanny similarity to the way Bryan whispered to me or that a third-grade teacher I met in the clinic had the same eye color as he did.

Maybe if I had been paying closer attention, I would not have to deal with the parallels smacking me on the upside of the head.

Hilary is about to give a loved one up for a better life.

Megan has cancer.

Megan means 'strong one.'

Bryan means 'strong one.'

Dear L/rd.

And now Hilary is asking me how to deal with the loss of a loved one.

And I'm not sure which one she's talking about.

**XXXxxxXXX**

There are tears making their way down her face. "Please," she says. "Please help me. Please help me let Johanna go."


	9. Eight Months Later: Johanna

_Disclaimer…I don't own anything._

_Author's Note…So this is it. The end. Ridiculously contrived plots and general silliness abound. I guess you can tell what's going to happen now that you've seen this chapter is entitled, Eight Months Later. Enjoy!_

**"A baby is G/d's opinion that the world should go on."**

**-Carl Sandburg**

_**Johanna**_

Two weeks ago, when I called Hilary to wish her a happy birthday, she explained what hindsight was. She told me that it was realizing how important things were, but only after they had already happened. Hindsight, she said, is the best thing and the worst thing that has ever happened to her.

When she put Megan, who has dyed the bottom of her hair violet, on the phone, I understood _in hindsight _why Megan insisted on calling me 'Joey' all those years. Besides for being a nickname, it's also what baby kangaroos are called. Those joeys, I think they got it right. They hang out in their mother's pouch for half a year, and then wean their way out of there. For two to three months, they spend more and more time away from her and by the time they're one, they can survive on their own. I read a book about them, and the book said that even though they can live just fine, they still stay close to their mom for another six months.

"See, Mom," I told her when she was helping me with the report I did on kangaroos, "Joeys always come back."

It made her cry, which is her usual reaction to anything anyone says these days. It's also her usual reaction to anything anyone _doesn't _say. Uncle Jimmy says it's because of the pregnancy hormones that rage through her body "like kangaroos through Australian grasslands." Mom's constantly telling me that this is the happiest time of her life, bar none. It makes no absolutely sense at all (what with all the crying), and this is how I know she's telling the truth.

Right after we got home from Augusta's Bridge (which was a whole month after we left--Mom wanted to be absolutely certain the transplant had worked before we went back), Mom and Uncle Jimmy told me about the baby. Mom had to leave the conversation after about five minutes to pray to the porcelain gods, as Megan would put it, and Uncle Jimmy asked if I was ok sharing him and Mom with a brother or sister.

I told him that I was, as long as _he _was ok sharing _me _with Shawn, Hilary, and Megan. Him and Mom had already told me that we would definitely "keep in touch" with them, but this was the first time we had ever really talked about it.

When Uncle Jimmy said that he was more than ok with it, well, I think that was the best feeling in the history of the world. I couldn't believe I had gone all this time thinking I could have one family, one family _only_, and to be told that I could have both…it was amazing. For _most_ of the time I've known him, Uncle Jimmy and I have always been weird, and we've touched and all, but I think that was the first time I ever _really _hugged him.

That was how Mom found us, hugging like it was going out of fashion. It made her start crying, and since then, it seems like she hasn't stopped, taking breaks only to eat, sleep, and have a five-minute conversation. All those tears; it almost makes me wish that we hadn't had that conversation at all.

Almost.

Mom's always asking me what I want; a brother or a sister? I won't tell her, because as soon as I say it, it'll put a curse or something on the baby that will make it a boy, but I can still think it…I want a sister. I already have one and she's awesome…maybe this new baby will follow in her footsteps. And maybe one day, she'll look at me the same way I look at Megan.

Right now, I'm at the hospital, doodling on my arm, making another list of names. The ones Mom and Uncle Jimmy have come up with on their own are horrible. Right now, their favorite for a boy is Dawson Justice, and if it's a girl, they like Vienna Rose. Why would a couple do that to their own _child_? It's cruel, and I won't let them pull that on my little brother or sister. When House heard those sad excuses for names, he said it sounded like they had both spent too much time listening to Billy Joel and watching 'Titanic', a joke that I did not understand at all. But still. Bad names.

Suddenly, someone grabs the pen from my hand and draws a nice, thick line through all the girl's names. "You won't be needing those," he says, and I look up to see House smiling like a Cheshire cat.

No sister, then. I have a few friends with little brothers; they all say they're the worst things that ever landed on Earth. "How do you know?" Maybe I don't have to join the club just yet.

He sits down next to me, and from the way he runs his fingers up and down the smooth surface of his cane, I can tell that there's no question, he _knows_. "Let's just say I have ESP."

We can say it, sure, but no way will Uncle Jimmy believe it. "Maybe we just shouldn't say anything about this, and pretend to be surprised," I suggest.

"And not get to see the look the new parents will give us when we know that it's a boy before they tell us?" House whines.

I shrug and review the list of boy names. House reads them too.

"Why isn't 'Greg' on the list?" he demands loudly.

That's when the most horrible thought comes to me; what if my little brother turns out to be like _House_! Suddenly, I think I'm going to be sick and a burning feeling climbs up my throat.

"I'll just add if for you," House tells me, and adds his name to the list. "So," he says as if he wasn't just graffiti-ing on somebody's arm, "is that what you wanted? A boy?"

"You're just like Mom," I say, even though him asking and her asking are totally different because she asks to _know _and I think House just wants to see me squirm. Even though it's a lie, seeing the expression on his face is worth it.

House gives me a look and while I don't know what emotion he's trying to show, I can tell he's acting. "Has your uncle been giving you tips in the fine art of deflecting questions? You shouldn't listen to him…next time you don't want to tell what you're thinking or where you've been, you come to me."

There's no way I'll go to House for help in lying. I'm about to tell him this when he gets up suddenly, and tosses his cane from one hand to the other, which seems like a bad idea. "So, you want to go meet him now?"

I blink. "Meet who?"

"Your brother," House says as though I should have known this.

"Well, yeah, but he hasn't been born yet." Although he's been taking his sweet time entering the world. Maybe he heard that his parents wanted to name him Dawson Justice. I can understand why he would want to put that off.

"Yes, he has. He's a whole hour old, your mom sent me to get you."

I have to open and close my mouth a few times before I can get the words out. "That's where--but how--THAT'S how you knew it was a boy!--but...why you…?"

The way House grins makes me want to break his other leg and toss his cane across the room. "Your uncle, excellent doctor that he is, passed out at the last minute and I had to sub in." With that, he gets up and walks away, without waiting to see if I'll follow.

**XXXxxxXXX**

When I enter my mom's hospital room, the first thing I see is Uncle Jimmy, passed out in a stiff chair. Then I see my mom, who looks so tired she might as well be passed out, sound asleep in her bed. Then I see the white hospital basinet, and the only person that's related to me that isn't sleeping…my baby brother.

I get that it's practically a rule that all babies are born with red, squashed faces, but I guess my brother's already a rebel because I wouldn't be telling the truth if I didn't say he was the single most beautiful, perfect baby in the entire world. He's got this little button nose, and really soft skin, and when he opens his eyes to start fussing, I can see they're the same color as Uncle Jimmy's.

"He probably just wants some attention," House says quietly. "You want to hold him?"

Suddenly, I feel nervous. "I don't know if I should…"

House rolls his eyes. "It'll be fine, just sit down," he orders impatiently. I don't want him to start talking louder, so I sit down on the very edge of my mom's bed. House picks the baby up and deposits him in my arms so quickly that if I had blinked, the only way I would have noticed there was a newborn in my arms would be his small body, pressing up against his blue blanket, pressing up against my clothes, pressing up against me.

"Hi, baby," I say, and I realize that I love him already. He's the first thing that I've seen from the beginning and I know that I'm going to see him in the end, too. And in between, we'll fight and we'll annoy each other and we won't talk to each other and we'll do all of this knowing that no matter what, we'll love each other all the same.

I want to protect him suddenly. There are mistakes he could make and fake guarantees he could get and people that might leave and I don't know how to save him from that.

I don't think anyone does.

"I promise…I promise I won't let them name you Dawson Justice," I vow and I can swear he's smiling at me.

_**F I N**_


End file.
